


Division Q

by clotpoleofthelord (plantainleaf)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Corporate, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 07:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3349097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantainleaf/pseuds/clotpoleofthelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for Prompt #86: John Sheppard inherits Sheppard Industries on the death of his estranged father, only to discover that Sheppard Industries is involved in so much more than John ever knew. Among other things, SI keeps a semi-tame brilliant-but-arrogant inventor on staff. Dr. Rodney McKay is responsible for most of the weapons and computer science advances in the company, including advanced tech that belongs in a sci-fi TV show. While Rodney tries to convince John that SI needs to pull back from military applications and seek out more science-based projects, someone decides that Rodney McKay should come work for them, and kidnaps him. John pulls out the entire arsenal at his disposal to bring Rodney back safely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Division Q

**Author's Note:**

> For the Romancing McShep fest!
> 
> Beta read by my spouse demonbloodsausagedog, most of the writing gotten done thanks to 1k1h's writing challenges!

Sheppard Industries’ main offices look pretty much the same to John as they always have. Sure, the logo’s been revamped, and the wood paneling is a few shades lighter, but Celeste at reception still has those cat-eye glasses and the same stiff perm, and the sleek chrome nameplate on the office door still reads _Patrick Sheppard_ in the same staid serif font as always.

He tries to pinpoint exactly when the last time he’d been here was; the last time he _saw_ his father was in 1996, but that had been in Virginia, at the house. He thinks maybe the last time he visited any of the New York properties was maybe ‘89 or ‘90 at the latest, because he has visions of shoulderpads when he tries to picture it.

He glances up at the clock and lets out a long sigh, letting his head fall back against the closed door behind him. The press is expecting him, the Sheppard Industries staff setting up a press conference in the main lobby in just a few minutes, and all he can think is _what the hell am I doing here?_

Patrick Sheppard had founded Sheppard Industries in 1968, fresh out of the Army, and almost immediately he and his firm became one of the top defense contractors in the country. John remembers being four years old, waving at a photographer from his perch high atop a missile while his father extolled the virtues of next generation nuclear technologies.

But after twenty years and a thousand arguments, John left it all behind. Ironically, his escape was the Air Force, where he flew planes with his father’s name emblazoned across the side. It became a sort of joke with his colleagues, that the planes bore his name–of course, none of them knew he was the son of _that_ Sheppard. He was thankful for how common the name was, then.

And now here he was, two days and nine thousand miles from his posting at McMurdo, staring at the graceful lines of his father’s awards lining the glass shelves behind the desk.

There’s something else on that shelf, though, something small and green, and he frowns and steps forward, dodging around the chocolate leather chair he remembers staring up at in 1982, listening to his father expound on the importance of discipline.

He tries not to touch the chair, instead leaning over to pluck the green thing from the shelf.

There’s a hum that’s not quite feeling or sound but something else, and it glows a bright green. It’s almost familiar, the feeling of _welcome_ and _safe_ , something that reminds him of late nights and thunderstorms and the beach in November.

There’s a sudden noise, loud in the quiet of the room, and John reaches for a sidearm that’s no longer there before realizing it’s the phone on the desk. He shoves the little green thing in his pocket and picks it up. 

“Sheppard,” he answers.

“John, I’m glad I found you,” says the voice on the other end, and it takes him a second to place it. Richard Woolsey, he remembers, his father’s lawyer and right hand man for the last ten years. “We’re expecting you in the lobby. Is there a problem?”

John clears his throat and runs a quick hand through his hair, glancing at his reflection in the mirrored glass behind his father’s shelves. A barely-recognizable man stares back at him, suit pressed, tie a little loose where he’s tugged at it, hair more carefully styled and less whatever-it-does through the efforts of Sheppard Industries’ PR team. “No,” he replies, swallowing hard. “No, I’ll be right there.”

***

McMurdo is so remote and his last few transfers so under-the-radar that John actually doesn’t learn about his father’s death via the official call. Instead, he’s coming in from a flight to the strange, top-secret base just a few kilometers away from McMurdo when he catches an administrator saying something that piques his attention.

“–now who knows what’s going to happen with that contract,” the guy says, loading Clif bars into his knapsack. “Sheppard Industries is going to some kid no one knows.” He brightens when he sees John. “Hey, Major, how’s the weather out there?”

John shrugs. “Cold. Snowy. The usual.” Then he hesitates. “Uh, what’s that you were saying? About Sheppard Industries?”

“Oh, apparently the CEO had some kind of heart attack or something. Everyone’s trying to figure out what’s going to happen next, since a lot of us are technically SI employees,” the guy replies, and even though John hasn’t spoken to his father in fifteen years, he can’t help the fist that clenches somewhere in his chest. “Wait,” says the guy, oblivious to John’s distress. “Major Sheppard, right? Hey, maybe you’re related to him!”

“Yeah,” says John, flicking his aviators open and turning away. “Huh. Maybe.” And that’s when his radio crackles and Colonel Carter’s voice sounds over his headset. “Major Sheppard? Could you report to my office?”

***

It’s funny how it comes back to you, John thinks as he approaches the podium, glancing up at the teleprompter in the back of the room. It’s been a while since public speaking lessons at Choate and Stanford, and even longer since his father pulled him up to stand beside him at a conference like this, but it’s all familiar in a way he really, really hates.

The teleprompter begins, leading him through an introduction and a statement on his grief and that of the company, then moves on to reassurances to shareholders about the financial stability of the company, and as his mouth moves around the words and his eyes moves around the room, all he can think is _I thought I got out. How did Patrick Sheppard pull me back in when he’s not even here anymore?_

The press asks the usual questions, about what he’s been doing (“testing our products,” he says with a smirk, and the reporter smiles back with a slightly-stunned look), his knowledge of the company (“I grew up in this building,” he says, trying to sound fond), and his fitness as a leader (“After fifteen years in the military, I think I’ve learned some stuff about command”). 

Finally, he can’t take any more of it. He thanks them all for their condolences, reassures them again of his commitment to the company, and turns to head back to the offices. He’s pretty sure his father had some kind of fancy whiskey stashed in the office, and he’s going to find it and drink the entire fucking thing.

He’s just rounding a corner when a hand wraps around his elbow and he spins, reflexes kicking in, and pins his assailant to the corridor wall.

“Whoa, whoa!” yells the guy, and John feels the panic drain out of him all at once.

“Jesus,” he says. “Don’t sneak up on a guy like that.”

The guy is obviously a scientist, in a dingy white labcoat over a plaid button-down and khakis, and even more obviously not at all a threat. He’s also white as a sheet, still pressed against the wall where John threw him, and John takes a deep breath and steps back.

“Sorry,” he offers. “But, uh, you might have heard I was in a warzone kind of recently.”

“Yes, well,” the guy brushes his hands down his chest as if checking for injuries. “That’s no excuse for assault, you know,” and John can’t help it if his mouth curves up in a smile. “Oh, yes, very funny, assault the scientists! Very American military-industrial complex of you, yes. Just what we expected from you, you know.”

“What?”

“We, the scientists, that is, well, we’re not exactly military, you know.”

“Yeah, okay–”

The guy interrupts him. “So. If you’re planning on implementing any new sort of martial law, making us focus on military crap instead of _interesting_ projects, it’s not going to go so well for you.”

John finally just breaks in and interrupts. “I’m sorry, who the hell _are_ you?” 

The man blinks, and John takes a minute to notice his long, long eyelashes, before thinking _Man, I must be real fucking tired_. “Um. Dr. Rodney McKay.” He–Dr. McKay–thrusts out a hand. “Head of Division Q.”

“John Sheppard,” says John, shaking his hand. McKay’s got a firm handshake, a slightly sweaty palm, and a dramatic eyeroll that he directs at John.

“Yes, I know who you are. Obviously.”

“Oh, yeah, obviously,” John agrees. “What’s Division Q?”

McKay looks shifty, all of a sudden. “Well. Um. You don’t actually–” he pulls a phone from his pocket and stares down at its clearly darkened screen. “Uh, I have to take this.” He turns and starts down the hallway, then turns abruptly. “It was–well, nice to meet you?” Then he raises the phone to his ear with an obviously faked _hello_ and takes off again, leaving John to stare after him, bewildered.

***

John meets with each department head over the next few days, starting with the head of the entire Research division, Radek Zelenka, who assures him their scientists are well-trained and their department is running smoothly. He endears himself to John, though, when he offers to send up reports on the latest flight technology along with their financials.

Jordan Bates, head of Corporate Intelligence, isn’t quite so friendly, but Marketing head Evan Lorne tells John he’s looking forward to working with him, and seems to genuinely mean it. Kate Heightmeyer in Sales seems terrifyingly competent, and John resolves to avoid her entire floor whenever possible. Walter down in Finance is pretty much the same as John remembers, which is weird, because he looks about forty and has since John was ten.

It’s a productive week, all things considered, and if he falls asleep each night and dreams of a wide blue sky and an open throttle, well, that’s his business.

Radek gives him a list of divisions within the research department and warns him that some of the scientists might be a little odd. John just grins at him and says, “I went to MIT for grad school. I can do odd.”

Radek stares at him for a long moment and then nods, once. “Yes, you will do well here, I think,” he says, then points to the first name. “Division A, first. That is Nuclear research, led by Dr. Kusanagi.”

John skims the list quickly, and frowns. “Where’s Division Q?”

“Hmm?” Radek blinks up at him. “What are you–the divisions, they only go up to K. There is no Q, Mr. Sheppard.”

“No,” John shakes his head. “Dr. McKay said Q.”

“Dr.–ah. Rodney has found you.” Radek sighs. “Yes, well, Rodney says too much sometimes, I fear.”

John waits, knowing Radek will eventually get uncomfortable with the silence and continue.

Finally Radek lets out a curse in what must be Czech. "Fine. Since you have met the illustrious McKay already, perhaps we can discuss it further."

"You know, I _was_ in the Air Force, doing some classified stuff. I can keep quiet if I need to." He pauses. "Not to mention the fact that I'm acting CEO, for the moment, so really–"

Radek flaps a hand at him, running the other through his already-mussed hair. "Yes, yes. I will take you there. But remember, I have warned you. Dr. McKay can be–difficult, at times."

"I kind of got that, Radek. Now tell me what he's up to."

"Well. Perhaps not here." He glances around the office John still thinks of as his father's and shakes his head. "Yes. That would be best. Follow me, please."

He leads John down a series of corridors and through a door marked “Authorized Personnel Only,” then to an unmarked door with a keypad. He types in a code, then leans in for a–yeah, that’s a retinal scan, and John is kind of freaking out, here, because he’s never been in this wing, not as a kid, not on the official or unofficial tours in the week since he’s been there, never. 

The door opens on an elevator that goes down, down, down, and keeps going, far further than John’s seen on the official plans. There’s no display, just a slot that Radek puts his keycard in, and really, this is starting to feel more like a comic book than him exploring his own company’s corporate structure. 

When the door finally opens, after a long, awkwardly silent ride down in which Radek keeps glancing at him, then away, as he fidgets in the small space, it’s on a wide room with chrome floors and low ceilings, more like a garage than anything else. John notices drains in the floor and vents on the ceiling, as well as hoses coiled at strategic intervals between workstations. 

And there in the middle of it all is Dr. McKay, dingy labcoat wrapped around a differently horrible plaid shirt, with a set of goggles pushed up on his forehead and a smear of grease across one cheekbone. “Oh, good,” he says, looking up at them. “Radek, hand me the soldering pen?”

Radek, who’s stepped out ahead of John and whose mouth is already open to speak, rolls his eyes. “Yes, Rodney,” he says, digging through a pile of tools on one of the workbenches. “That is why I, your boss, am here: to be your lackey.”

McKay flaps a hand at him. “Yes, yes, thank you. The soldering pen?”

Radek shakes his head and slaps it in his hand.

“So, uh,” John leans in towards Radek. “You’re in charge here, right?”

“Only because I’m not going to do the paperwork,” says McKay dismissively. 

“As you can see,” Radek says to John, “my management is very effective in this department.”

“I’m getting that,” says John, and leans closer to McKay’s workstation. “What’s this?”

“It’s very complex, and _no don’t touch it!_ ” McKay yanks the tray out of John’s reach and glares at them both. “Do you need something? Why are you here?”

John smiles, but it’s not a nice smile. “Well, Dr. McKay, as the new leader of this company, it’s my job to have an idea what’s going on in it. Kind of my job.”

“Yes, maybe up in the, the _marketing_ and _biology_ and other useless departments. Down here, we do real science.”

“Real science?” John cocks his head, trying for a bewildered tone, “you mean, like medicine?”

“That’s it,” says McKay. “ _Out_ of my lab!”

But John reaches for McKay’s tablet instead, grabbing it before McKay can object and tucking it against his forearm. “Oh, this is _cool._ ” He tips it towards Radek. “Check it out. What’s the skin on this? I’ve never seen a metal with properties like this has.” He zooms in, turning the view. “Oh, yeah.”

He’s so involved in his examination of the design that it takes him a moment to see that Rodney has gone quiet, all his considerable attention focused directly on John, and it’s almost a little discomfiting, being the object of that much intensity. John is horrified to feel a warmth in his cheeks he’s pretty sure is a blush.

“Yes, well, it’s, um, we call it Naquadah,” says McKay, far more subdued. “You can read that? And you understand it?”

“It’s not that complicated, McKay,” says John easily, handing it back to him. “My masters in mechanical engineering might be giving me a leg up, though.”

McKay’s mouth drops open and he gapes like a particularly surprised grouper, and John can’t help grinning a real, genuine grin at the expression.

“Well, this was fun. Radek, who’s next on the list?” He turns towards the elevator. “Oh, and Dr. McKay? Keep me up to date on your projects.”

“I, um, yes. All right.” McKay still looks bushwhacked.

“Next is Peter Grodin in Division B, Flight Technology and Propulsion, I believe,” says Radek, consulting his PDA. “You will find his research particularly interesting, given your background.”

The elevator door swishes shut, and John’s still smiling. Things are looking up.

***

It’s incredible, some of the stuff they’re working on, John reflects after his fourth and final day of meeting with division heads. Between the geothermic energy projects and the new missile targeting systems, not to mention the gene therapies and robotic rescue droids, SI is at the forefront of pretty much every technological field John can think of. And that’s not even getting into the flight research Dr. Grodin is working on in B. John’s pretty sure that as CEO he’s allowed to test any new vehicles his company develops. If not, he’s going to make that a new policy.

Then there’s Division Q, and the giant file McKay’s emailed him of the various projects he’s working on down there. At first, John thought he had to have some kind of invisible assistants, maybe in the back doing busywork or something, but Radek had shaken his head and told him, “I help him when I can, or when he asks. A few others, Peter, Dr. Simpson, he allows in as well. Dr. Cadman, well, she visits him, but I do not know how much help she provides. Perhaps their relationship is more, more inspirational?”

“Wait, Dr. Cadman and–”

“Oh, no no no!” Radek shakes his head and looks vaguely nauseated. “No, you misunderstand. Rodney does nothing but yell at her, but when she visits, his productivity increases dramatically for days afterwards.”

“Huh. And you’re sure they’re not–” John’s not sure why he’s so interested in this.

“I am sure. I believe that–” Radek glances around the room, then leans closer, conspiratorially. “I believe they may have had too many drinks at the staff holiday party, a few years ago. They became–” he shakes his head. “Not close, no, but they understand each other, I think. Rodney yells, Laura teases, but it is in affection, and nothing more.”

“Huh.”

“But no, he is not officially manager of anyone, no. That would be not so good for morale, you see.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” says John.

Regardless, John’s intrigued by the sheer variety of projects McKay is working on. He has a body armor project, a new kind of generator, work on alternate universes and string theory, theories on time travel (and boy, if that doesn’t make him want to force McKay into a marathon of all three Back to the Future movies), something John can’t quite understand but that has to do with nanotechnology and makes him think of _Fantastic Voyage_ , and a hundred more in various stages. It’s all pretty cool.

Actually, as he goes back through McKay’s archives, it seems like most of the coolest, most profitable inventions SI has come out with in the last decade have had McKay’s hands in them, one way or another.

There’s one current project in particular that intrigues him, though, and he finds himself wandering down to McKay’s lab one late Friday night, using the new keycard Radek secured for him. Project Galactica had caught his eye instantly, on name alone, and he’d skimmed through the description with more and more glee with every paragraph, then had copied the whole file to his personal laptop and brought it home to read through more carefully when he can’t be interrupted.

It’s a _ship_. A _spaceship._ It’s not pretty, and it’s not even close to finished, but it’s possible, with McKay’s new Naquadah-based generators, and John’s pretty sure he’s in love, because it’s a _spaceship_ he might get to fly, and really, what could beat that?

So that’s why he’s wandering the corridors of his building on a Friday night, feeling kind of like a nerd, but honestly, the last time he actually went out on a Friday night Nirvana was still putting out new music, so it’s probably time to give up on his image of himself as a hip kind of dude.

As he suspected, there’s a light on in McKay’s lab, back in a corner of the big room. He heads over, then leans against the workstation, crossing his arms and looking down at McKay, who’s face-down on a keyboard, eyes shut, mouth open, faint whistling sounds emerging from his nose.

And okay, he supports his employees working hard, because it’s good for the company and scientific advancement, blah blah blah, but really, the guy’s gotta have a home to get to, some kind of life outside the lab. He reaches out hesitantly and shakes McKay’s shoulder. “Hey,” he says quietly. “Dr. McKay?”

McKay mumbles something and turns his head until his face is buried in the crook of his elbow. 

“Dr. McKay,” John says a little louder, shaking him again. “Rodney!”

“Wha–who–I didn’t–” McKay sits up with a start, hair akimbo and keyboard print across his cheek. “Sheppard?”

“Hey,” says John, pulling back. “Uh, I figured you probably didn’t want to crash there for the night.”

Rodney stretches his arms over his head, rolling his neck from side to side and letting out a quiet moan as his vertebrae crackle. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says with a yawn. “Uh, did you need something?” He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hand, and John’s suddenly hit with the bizarre urge to find the guy a blanket or something, because he’s just incredibly pathetic right now.

“I, uh, kind of wanted to see more about Galactica, but it can wait.” He pushes off from the workstation. “Get some sleep, Dr. McKay.”

“Wait,” says McKay, and blinks a few times. “Hang on, just let me–” he fumbles on the shelf under his desk and pulls out a mug, grimacing as he takes a gulp of the obviously chilled coffee. “Okay. Yes. Galactica.” His eyes brighten. “You read the file?”

“I read the file,” John confirms, unable to keep his lips from stretching into a thrilled smile. He knows how dorky it looks and he still can’t help it, because _spaceship._ “You sure you don’t need to crash? I mean–” he points at Rodney’s face, “you’ve got, uh–” 

Rodney reaches up and brushes a hand over his face. “What? What? Do I have something on my face?”

“You know what? Nevermind.” John figures McKay will eventually discover the giant smear of ink on one cheek, and it’s kind of adorable, so he lets it go. “Okay then.” He leans closer, hands on the desk. “Spaceships, Dr. McKay?”

“ _Spaceships_ ,” says McKay, and opens a file on his computer, dragging it out of the monitor until it’s blown up across one wall by what has to be a projector in the ceiling. “I think I can have them ready to go in a year. Maybe six months, with, y’know, the right funding.” He looks at John hopefully.

John claps him on the shoulder. “McKay, if you can build me spaceships, I can get you funding.”

***

He falls into a rhythm more quickly than he’d expected, honestly. He misses flying, misses it every day like a punch to the gut, but he’s not exactly hating his new life at Sheppard Industries. He meets weekly with Radek, who turns out to be a funny little guy, and battles his way through paperwork and executive team disputes (Kate Heightmeyer wants daily staff yoga breaks, Bates wants to install cameras in every hallway, Harriman tells the _worst_ jokes), and re-familiarizes himself with the inner workings of the corporation.

It’s not flying, but on the upside, no one’s shooting at him. He tries to remember that when he’s bogged down in paperwork that never ends.

But the best part of the job, he has to admit, is Dr. McKay’s lab. He finds himself wandering down there at least once a day, to poke at McKay’s projects and bother the guy. Of all the ideas McKay is working on, Project _Galactica_ is still the coolest by far, because really, John never got over wanting to be an astronaut. But other stuff is pretty sweet too, like the levitating robots and the three dimensional projector, for instance. It’s the latter that McKay’s working on tonight when John pokes his head in the doorway and waves a bag of donuts at him.

McKay’s head snaps up, ready to spew a stream of invective at whoever dared disturb his work, but his face brightens when he sees John (or, more likely, the donuts). “It’s you,” he says, waving John over. “Come on, hand them over.”

John grins and sits in one of the desk chairs beside McKay’s workstation and sets the bag down on his desk, just out of his reach. “No donuts until you show me what you’ve got on that.”

McKay makes a grab for the bag but John pulls it further, shaking his head. “Combat training, McKay. Spill.”

“ _Fine_ ,” sighs McKay, but John can see the sparkle of excitement in his eyes at getting to talk about his work. It’s something he likes about the guy, how thrilled he is by getting to play with this stuff for a living. “Okay, so remember how I was trying to polarize the light?”

John leans back in his chair, feeling himself relax a little as McKay’s words wash over him. He mostly just lets him talk, although he occasionally throws in a suggestion that leaves McKay silent and blinking for a few seconds before scrambling for his keyboard. “Yes, yes _yes_ ,” he says when this happens, and John just nods and hands him a donut, trying not to laugh at him trying to type two-handed while stuffing his face.

His favorite part of every evening’s work tends to be the Box, though. It had taken Rodney a few weeks to show it to John, but now he pulls it out every time John comes down to visit.

It’s a normal large cardboard box, with the words “OPEN IF YOU WANT TO DIE HORRIBLY” scribbled on the side in McKay’s strangely elegant hand. Inside, though, there’s an array of bizarre gadgets, ranging from egg- to basketball-sized and made of some material John doesn’t recognize from anywhere else. They light up at his touch, though, and McKay says it’s because of some strange genetic quirk that John and Dr. Beckett and a couple other people seem to have. Whatever it is, it makes him able to use some of the weird stuff, and at least identify the purposes of a few more. He’s been in and out of the Box often enough now that he’s probably at least brushed against each device, and it’s a little silly, but he feels like the whole thing is lit up, now, even when the lights are dimmed, like there’s something welcoming and ready to go just waiting for him somewhere.

So yeah, it’s fun, hanging out in Division Q, and he gets to feel kind of useful in more ways than just filling out paperwork and sitting through meetings. And yeah, he’s no physicist, but he _does_ have an MA from MIT, in engineering no less, so he likes to think he might be occasionally a little helpful. And it’s fun, getting to play around with science. It’s been a long time since he’s had a chance to stretch that particular part of his brain, and if he’s honest with himself, he has to admit that he missed it. 

Finally, though, the donut bag is empty and the clock is ticking steadily towards too-late-o’clock, and John stretches in his seat and stands with a groan of muscles that have spent too long idle. 

“Oh,” says McKay, “you’re leaving already?”

“It’s almost midnight, McKay,” John says, scrubbing a hand over suddenly gritty eyes. “And I got in at seven. Gotta be back here at seven tomorrow.” He grimaces. “Meeting with Woolsey in Legal.”

Rodney shudders. “That sounds terrible.”

“Pretty much. So, uh, thanks for the photonics lesson, Doctor.”

He’s up and heading towards the door when Rodney calls out, “Hey, wait a minute!”

“Yeah?” He turns and raises an eyebrow. 

“Um, well, I think my blood sugar is getting low, and I was going to get a pizza? Maybe? Have you–that is, would you be interested in eating?” He sounds almost nervous, eyes flicking to the side and avoiding John’s.

Now that John thinks about it, though, he _is_ kind of hungry. The last thing he ate was a wrap off a conference room platter at maybe three, and it’s been a long nine hours since then. “Uh,” he glances at the clock. “Will the cafeteria still be open?”

“Oh, _please_ ,” says Rodney. “No need to torture yourself, Sheppard. Those harpies take pleasure in ruining good food.” He reaches in a drawer and pulls out a trifold menu. “No, no. Let me share with you the most important phone number in the universe.” He opens it and points to the middle fold. “Mushrooms, sausage, pepperoni. You’ll never want another pizza.” 

 _What the hell,_ thinks John. _Huh. I guess I made a friend?_

***

Before taking this job, John knew little more than what the average soldier did about Sheppard Industries’ current research. It was easy to forget that he knew a lot of the people involved, or that every time a photo surfaced from a press conference or a device release it showed his own father. Patrick Sheppard was a remote figure, even when John was a kid, so it’s not as though he had fond memories that rose up at the General’s image.

The first few weeks had been a crash-course in catching up, though. There’s some really neat stuff going on, in medical and biological research, and some pretty incredible robots and lasers and cool new technology, it turns out. Some of it is brilliantly simple, like Dr. Gaul’s project to interface tiny solar panels into the sun-roofs of cars to raise their miles per gallon. Some of it is beyond his understanding, like whatever Dr. Parrish is doing with all those plants and microscopes (hey, biology was never his strong suit). But most of it, he realizes, is weapons. 

The budget is massive, yes, so even the littlest projects are incredibly well-funded, but with the exception of Dr. McKay’s lab (whose funding seems to appear out of nowhere and disappear into somewhere else), nearly all of the money the company brings in goes directly into research that has military applications.

And sure, John’s a military guy. He knows how important planes and missiles and body armor are. But somehow he’d thought that leaving the Air Force would mean less doing stuff that would kill people and more–well, he’s not really sure what the alternative is. More stuff like McKay’s doing, or Dr. Beckett’s research on gene therapy for congenital conditions, maybe. Whatever the plants Parrish and Brown are studying are. Stuff like that.

McKay likes to complain about the military, and the first few times he’d done so to John, John’s hackles had gone up. But now he’s used to it, and though he’d never admit it out loud, Rodney has a point about some of it.

“All I’m saying is that instead of new and exciting ways to blow people up, maybe more focus on, I don’t know, cleaning water? Generating power? Might stop a couple wars, you know,” he says one evening through a mouthful of pizza. “I mean, does the Army really need a levitating tank?”

John sits up straighter. “We have a _levitating tank?_ ”

Rodney lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “Yes, Sheppard. We have a levitating tank. Seriously, it’s like you’re conditioned to perk up at this kind of thing.” He looks shifty for a second. “It, um, didn’t work out quite like we expected, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well.” Rodney shifts awkwardly. “It doesn’t so much float as–um, bounces?”

“Bounces?”

“Well, it’s not _my_ fault! I told that idiot Kavanagh his fuel mixture was off, but he insisted on using it. And we haven’t had a chance to reconfigure the engine. So the fuel has bubbles and that makes it, uh–”

“Bounce?”

“Bounce,” agrees Rodney glumly. “But technically, yes, we do have a levitating tank.”

“Cool,” says John.

“I’m just saying. There’s a lot more we could be doing besides the military crap.”

***

John brings it up at the next Executive Team meeting, asking for thoughts on the company’s focus. 

“I do not know,” says Radek thoughtfully. “We have worked with the military since your father began the company, John. And before I came here, I consulted for Czech military. I have been making weapons for thirty years, but I have often thought about other things I could do with my staff and my time.”

Walter leans forward, frowning. “Mr. Sheppard, our largest contracts come from the military. Are you suggesting that we stop being a weapons manufacturer?”

“No,” says John. “Just that we think about, uh, diversifying.”

“I think it’s a great idea,” says Lorne, leaning forward and smiling. “Our image could use it, that’s for sure.”

“Bates?” asks John. “What do you think?”

His security chief leans back in his chair, eyes fixed on John. “I don’t know, sir. Our competitors all focus strictly on military operations. If we split our resources, would that lose us the remaining military support?”

“I don’t think so,” says Kate Heightmeyer, tapping her pen on her notebook. “We do sell a relatively large amount of our products commercially. It’s not as much as our military gear, of course, but it’s still significant.”

“Think about it,” says John, pushing up from the table as the clock strikes the hour. “Because I’m going to go before the Board next month to discuss it with them.” 

 As everyone files out the door, Woolsey hangs back, flipping through his notebook. Once it’s just him and John, he shuts the door. “John, I’m not sure you’ve thought this through,” he says carefully, meeting John’s eyes. “Your father founded this company to work with the armed forces. He wouldn’t–”

“He’s gone,” says John. “He left me with the responsibility for this company. And now it’s my turn to do something with it.” He opens the door, turning back to Woolsey. “I appreciate your input, Mr. Woolsey. But I think this is important.”

Woolsey sighs. “I’m not saying I disagree, John. I’m just saying–” he moves past John to the door. “I’m just telling you to be careful,” he finishes, voice low, then leaves.

John stares after him, not sure what to think.

***

The pizza thing with Rodney turns into a weekly event, and after a month or so John realizes they’re not even doing all that much work anymore. Rodney pulls out a chessboard one evening once the pizza arrives, and the next thing John knows it’s three hours later and he’s won three of their five games, and Rodney is staring at him with undisguised shock. He retaliates by finding a RISK game in a secondhand store near his apartment, but Rodney destroys him when he brings it out. Then he realizes Rodney’s giant workstation projector can play DVDs, and he queues up Back to the Future one night while Rodney’s meeting the delivery guy upstairs just to watch him splutter.

He finds himself having lunch with Lorne and Radek in the cafeteria, most days, and Laura Cadman in Division G is a frequent visitor to his office, usually with coffee. She stops by his office one afternoon as he’s diving deep into the records of Sheppard Industry’s charitable contributions and feeling a headache building at the array of choices his father obviously made.

“Hey, boss,” she says, cheerily, and plops down in the chair across from him. “Five o’clock on a Friday. Big plans?”

He blinks up at her blearily. “Uh. I–no?”

“Now you do. Come on, you work too hard.” She grins at him, and he wonders for the thousandth time since starting this gig how safe it is to have someone so peppy in charge of explosives research. “Carson and Radek and Peter and I are grabbing drinks in a couple minutes. You should come out with us!”

“Wait, Peter? Not Peter Kavanagh, right?”

“Oh, god, no. Peter _Grodin._ Runs B? Flight stuff? As if we’d invite Kavanagh anywhere.” She grimaces. “I have a feeling you and Peter are going to hit it off, though. He’s been away on a sabbatical a few months, so I don’t think you got a chance to meet him.”

John’s torn. On the one hand, Peter Grodin’s plane system designs are _beautiful_ , and John kind of wants to climb into his obviously streamlined and orderly mind. And he likes Laura, and Radek, and Carson, who runs Division G, doing some pretty cool medical technology stuff. On the other hand, though, he’s acutely aware of his position as the Man. He hated COs who tried to hang with the men under their commands, and he remembers sitting awkwardly through too many social events, waiting for the Colonel or General or whoever to just _leave_ already so they could get down to having some fun.

But Laura’s offer seems genuine, and he knows she’s not one to mince words or tell him what he wants to hear. So he closes his laptop firmly, unplugging it and tucking it in his bag. “Yeah, all right,” he says. “Lead the way.”

Her smile in return is genuine, wide and toothy, and John feels a little of his anxiety melt away.

***

The bar is just a few blocks down from the office and it’s a nice evening, the sun just starting to sink below the skyscrapers on either side. It’s kind of awesome, the light reflecting on all the glass, and it reminds John in a weird way of the ice in Antarctica, just more–vertical.

He listens to Laura and Carson chat about their departments, letting the sunlight and the company wash over him. He hasn’t been outside in weeks, he realizes. Not for longer than the trip from his front door to the subway, or the subway to Sheppard Industries. Sure, his office has two walls of floor to ceiling windows, but it’s not the same as getting out here, even if there are hundreds of people in the street jostling past them as they walk. That’s the part of New York he’s still not used to after fifteen years in the most remote places on Earth: all the _people_. 

Laura elbows him. “Hey, Sheppard, you with us?”

He gives her a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, just, uh, been a while since I went out.”

“You work too hard,” she says, and Carson nods in agreement.

“You haven’t left before eight a single night since you’ve been here, lad, even weekends,” says Carson, ushering them into a dim bar. “You should get some rest and have some fun.”

John looks at him suspiciously. “How do you know how late I work?”

Carson looks shifty, and Laura rolls her eyes. “Carson Beckett, official Sheppard Industries den mother,” she says, sliding into a booth. “He thinks his medical degree means he gets to be everyone at SI’s doctor.” He face brightens and she waves. “Hey, here’s Peter!”

John turns and sees a man waving back, smiling at them. He’s olive-skinned and broad, handsome in a clean sort of way, and he slides into the booth beside Carson. 

“Welcome home,” says Carson, grinning broadly. “Have you eaten? Slept?”

Grodin smiles back at him. “Yes, Carson, I have. I’ve been back a day and a half, you know. Hello, Laura, you look lovely.” He turns to John. “And I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met?”

John leans forward and holds out his hand. “John Sheppard.”

“Ah!” Grodin nods. “Peter Grodin. I’ve heard a lot about you these last few weeks,” he says.

“Well,” John rubs at the back of his head awkwardly. “I hear you’re working on some new helicopter designs?”

Peter grins widely. “Oh, yes.” He pulls out his phone and opens a schematic, flipping it to show John. 

John examines it quickly, then looks up to meet Peter’s eyes. “Oh, that is _cool_ ,” he says, and he’s about to ask where he got the idea for the rotor design when his phone rings. “Excuse me,” he says, and slides out of the booth, putting the phone to his ear. “Sheppard,” he says briskly, nodding at Laura as she point to the menu and mouths a question.

“Mr. Sheppard, there’s been an incident,” says Bates, and John’s stomach drops.

“What happened?”

There’s a pause filled with background noise, the sound of chatter and footsteps, before Bates answers. “We believe there was a break-in, sir. One of our scientists is missing and at least six prototype weapons.”

“Shit,” hisses John. “Who?” 

“Dr. Rodney McKay,” says Bates, and John’s stomach drops even further. “He works in a classified lab–”

“Yeah, I know who he is.” Out of the corner of his eye, John sees Laura go still and turn to look at him. He forgets sometimes that she’s a vet too, that she served in the Marines, and right now, that’s obvious by her attentive stance at his tone. “I’ll be there in five minutes.” He hangs up.

“What’s going on?” asks Carson, looking from John’s face to Laura’s.

“Someone broke into my company and stole one of my scientists,” John says, feeling his body click into that adrenaline state of focus and attention. “I’m going to find out who and get McKay back.”

“Rodney’s missing?” asks Peter, horrified. “What do you mean?”

John doesn’t answer, just turns on his heel and half-jogs out the door, breaking into a run once he’s on the street. 

The building is surrounded by black cars when he arrives back at the front door and pushes his way through to the cluster of men just inside the lobby.

“Report,” he says sharply to Bates, who snaps to attention before obviously forcing himself to stand down.

“There was some kind of energy blast,” Bates replies. “The cameras all went dead from the sub-basements up to the tenth floor. We sent security through each level to inventory and checked the logs, but the only person still swiped in on the security station is Dr. McKay. His elevator hadn’t moved since he returned from lunch at one until it dropped down when the blast hit.”

“And there’s no way he just snuck out the back?” asks John, though he knows the answer.

“There’s no back door out of sub-basement eight, sir,” says Bates. “The only way in or out is that elevator. Whoever took him took out our surveillance equipment as well as the mechanical elements of the elevator.”

John grits his teeth. “Fuck,” he mutters, and turns to look up at the building.

It’s dark up through the tenth floor, lights starting abruptly after that all the way up to 104. Above that glows the 80 foot tall SI logo, a piece of vanity that John’s always hated. He turns back to Bates. “And nothing else is missing. Nothing from any other lab?”

“No, sir. It looks like that was the only lab hit.”

John pulls out his phone and hits Radek’s contact. “Radek!” he says before Radek can say anything. “Rodney is missing. I need you back here to try and get the surveillance back online so we can see what happened. No, I don’t know what happened, that’s why I’m calling you–look, just get over here!”

“Dr. Zelenka lives in Queens,” says Bates. “He should be here in 20 minutes, tops.” He glances at his security team, standing at the ready behind him. “Sir, I need to brief my team.”

“Yeah, go,” says John, and pulls his phone back out, dialing Woolsey’s number. He conveys the situation, rapid-fire, and Woolsey takes a minute to catch up, but once he does, he promises to call his old college friend at the New York branch of the FBI and see what he can do. 

John hangs up without saying goodbye and stalks into the building. “No sign of a forced entry?” he asks Bates, who shakes his head. “No, sir. But without access to the security logs–”

“–we don’t know whose access code they used. _Shit_.” Bates’ eyes flick to the door, where one of his men is examining the hinges, and John waves a hand. “Do your job. Tell me to fuck off if I’m in your way. Dr. McKay is our top priority.”

Bates blinks, actually taken aback for the first time since John met him, and nods. “Yessir.”

***

There’s no evidence. There’s not a single _fucking_ piece, and John is going out of his mind with frustration and worry.

Rodney is his employee, his responsibility, his _friend._ And he’s somewhere, probably freaked out and alone and uncomfortable, if he’s lucky, and John doesn’t even want to think about if he’s less lucky.

***

He’s tried to call Rodney at least ten times (his phone is the one of the only ones still working, since he was out of the building when the break-in happened). Each time the polite voice tells him the number is out of service, and the urge to just throw the phone against the wall gets stronger and stronger.

Five hours after Bates’ call, he’s out of things to try.

He leans his elbows on the railing of the balcony outside his office, looking out over Central Park and the city beyond, feeling helplessness bubbling up in his gut. _Fucking awesome CEO I turned out to be_ , he thinks, clenching his fists. _Can’t even keep one scientist safe._

Something taps against his shoulder and he twitches away, turning to look, but there’s no one there. Then a touch brushes against his other elbow, and he pulls back, reaching for a gun he doesn’t carry anymore, but then a string bounces against his face and he grabs it.

It’s some kind of thin, hard string, like fishing wire, but even thinner, and tied to the end is a silver key. He stares at it, blinking. “What the fuck?” he says, and tugs on it. It’s secured tightly, and he follows it up with his eyes until it disappears above the _S_ of the SI logo on the top of the building. The sun is behind the building, and he squints up into the dark silhouette above him. 

At first it looks the same as always, the curve of the _S_ turning the corner to the north, and then–

Is that something moving, up there?

He steps back, pressing himself against the balcony, and stares upwards. Yes, there’s something moving up there, something waving back and forth, and now that John’s paying attention, there’s a noise he doesn’t recognize filtering down, cutting through the noise of wind and the faint _woosh_ of traffic.

 _Holy shit,_ he realizes. _There’s someone up there!_

He fumbles for his phone and pulls it out, silently thanking McKay for the binoculars app he’d built on a whim a few weeks earlier. He nearly drops it over the balcony, but finally he has it up, camera centered on the figure.

It takes a moment to focus and to adjust the levels, but then he realizes he recognizes those broad shoulders and ruffled hair. 

“McKay!” he yells, grinning like a maniac, knowing his voice won’t carry that far. He waves, and McKay’s movements intensify, and John finds himself laughing, suddenly.

He sprints back inside and bursts into the fire stairwell, taking the steps three at a time. Slamming open the door to the roof, he skids to a halt on the asphalt, staring up at the lower curve of the _S._  

“Rodney!” he yells, shading his eyes as he stares up at the giant letter. “Hey, Rodney!”

A tousled head pokes out from above him, and McKay yells, “Jesus Christ, Sheppard! What took you so long?”

John feels his face splitting in a goofy, goofy grin and he doesn’t even care how dumb he must look. “Hang on, I’m gonna get you down from there,” he yells back.

“Yes, _thank_ you,” Rodney replies, and John finally remembers to pull out his phone and send a text to Bates’ new phone, since every phone that’d been in the building was totally fried. “I’d like to get back to my lab at some point and check this out.”

FOUND HIM, he types. BRING A COPTER TO THE TOP OF THE BUILDING. 

It’s a testament to Bates’ efficiency that it’s less than ninety seconds before the sound of rotors fills the air, and John runs back to the edge of the roof, waving at Bates through the open door of the helicopter. Bate holds up a rolled ladder and points at John, then at the ladder. John nods frantically and the copter rises, Bates tossing the ladder towards him. He catches it, climbing into the attached harness, and quickly climbs up as soon as it’s drawn tight. He swings a little in the breeze, but soon he’s at the door, taking Bates’ arm to be pulled inside.

“McKay’s on the logo,” he says, and Bates nods.

“I see,” he says, and gestures at the pilot, who obligingly pulls the helicopter up higher. They draw level with McKay and John quickly climbs out of the harness, tucking it back into the bag attached to the ladder, then tosses it to McKay.

Now that he’s closer, he can see the missing prototypes, with Rodney huddled in the center. Seeing them now, he realizes what they all have in common: they’re the devices Rodney had clustered around his workstation, most of which John hadn’t learned the name or function of. He hadn’t made the connection before, but he’s developing a theory now, and it doesn’t involve kidnappers.

McKay is shaking his head, clutching the bottom of the ladder as the helicopter hovers above him.

“Come on, McKay!” he yells, and Rodney’s head shaking intensifies. “Get in the harness, Rodney!” 

Rodney sighs dramatically, and pulls the harness from its bag, shaking it out awkwardly, trying to avoid his cluster of devices.

The top of the logo isn’t that wide of a surface; he’d have been better off on the _I_ , with its flat top. As it is, it looks like he’s balanced everything carefully around him, using all the available space, and he maneuvers cautiously to avoid knocking anything down as he steps into it and cinches it tight, then takes a deep breath and steps up onto the ladder.

“We’ll get the stuff later,” John says. “Let’s get Dr. McKay off of there, first, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” replies Bates, and tugs at the ladder’s crank, reeling it up rung by rung. John kneels at the door, guiding it up, and finally Rodney’s head appears. John reaches down, wrapping a hand around Rodney’s warm wrist, and tugs him upwards and inside.

He tumbles into the helicopter, falling onto John, and Bates slides the door closed. “Good to see you safe, Dr. McKay,” he says, and then joins the pilot in the front seats.

“Jesus Christ, Rodney, what the fuck happened?” asks John, breathlessly, but what he means to come out angry instead comes out sort of high pitched, relieved and giddy.

“Device,” says Rodney. “Classified project. Uh. Teleporter, maybe? I touched it and then I was–and there’s no way down, and my phone was dead, and–”

He’s flustered and sweaty and a little sunburned, and he’s so, so close, pink tip of his nose nearly brushing John’s own, and he’s not sure what happens but suddenly there are lips against his, dry and warm, and John’s eyes drift shut as his hands curl around Rodney’s shoulders, tugging him even closer.

Rodney lets out a little sound, almost a whimper, and his fingers find their way under John’s shirt and stutter against his sides.

There’s the sound of a throat clearing, and John realizes suddenly that the sound of the helicopter has faded and when he opens his eyes, there’s Bates, staring down at him, lips quirking up in the closest to a smile John’s ever seen on his face.

“Sir, we have to bring a team up to retrieve the prototypes,” he says carefully, and John squirms out from under Rodney, feeling his cheeks heat up as he straightens his clothing. 

“Yes, um. Thanks, Bates. We’re just going to go, um, take a look at what happened.”

“I’m sure,” says Bates, and opens the door, stepping out after the pilot.

“So, um,” says Rodney. “Thanks. Thank you for–um, finding me.”

“Yeah,” John clears his throat. “Yeah, of course, McKay.”

Rodney’s eyes flick down to his lips, then back up, almost too quickly for John to notice. “You want to go in? Maybe, um, have some coffee, before I take a look at this?” He gestures at the green-glowing rectangle in his hand.

John glances over his shoulder at the empty street, cordoned off and all the security personnel debriefing with Bates in the lobby, and curls a hand around the back of Rodney’s neck, pulling him and kissing him again. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he says as he pulls back. “Glad you’re not kidnapped.”

Rodney looks a little dazed, cheeks pink and pupils dilated. “Yeah. Me, too.”

 


End file.
